


The Soldiering Lie

by Tal



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, Internal Monologue, POV First Person, Soldiers, Songfic, Trench Warfare, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tal/pseuds/Tal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There’s this romantic notion about the trenches. Something about heroes and this is where they die..."</p><p>Thomas Barrow begs to differ. A monologue about his life in the trenches and what might have lead him to do what he did.</p><p>Songfic set to 'The Soldiering Life' by the Decemberists. Sardonically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Soldiering Lie

_Ambling madly all over the town_

_The call to arms, you're likened to a whisper_

_I liken to a radio_

 

There’s this romantic notion about the trenches. Something about heroes and this is where they die, fighting for their country, for the freedom or their nation. Something about soldiers being noble patriots; a gun in their hands, the Union Jack on their sleeves. Their love for England is as forceful a weapon as their bayonet.  

 

_You were a brick bag a bowery tough, so rough_

_They called you from a cartoon_

_Pulled out of your pantaloons_

Read the news, listen to the radio and this is all you’ll hear. When England called these brave young men hurried to the rescue of their nation.  And when they fall, they fall as heroes, in service of a greater cause. Together they fight, together for our cause, brothers in arms, faithful and loyal to each other and to their land. 

 

I can see what they mean. I imagine it does hold some romantic appeal. To those who sleep in a warm bed at night, that is. To those who have never actually been stuck in the mud with the weight of dead soldier on top of them. 

 

“Get him off of me!”  

 

_But You_

_My brother in arms_

_I'd rather I'd lose my limbs_

_Than let you come to harm_

 

This is where  _everyone_ dies. Heroes and cowards alike. The upper class git, the working class slave, the bright scholar, the hard-working miner, the perfect son-in-law, the deviant bastard. Bullets have a way of making us all equals. And bullets make us equals by the thousands.  

 

A little secret then, to those who think us heroes; no one here fights for freedom. No one here fights for King or country. When push comes to shove, everyone here just fights for their own selfish  lives and sod the other. When it comes to a choice we chose our own life above that of anyone else. We fight to make it to the next sunrise, that’s all.  

 

_But You_

_My bombazine doll_

_The bullets may singe your skin_

_And the mortars may fall_  

 

They fill our heads with propaganda; they give us a sense of importance, of patriotism. We’re supposed to be doing it for our families; that’s what they keep repeating. They think that’ll help. That’s what people care for, apparently.  Tell them they’re doing it for their sons and daughters and they’ll follow you to the ends of the world.  Some people buy it. There  _is_ patriotism to be found in the trenches. No me, though.

 

I don’t have a family. I’ll never have a family, I don’t want a family, and I don’t want to be here.  

 

And when it comes down to it everyone’s just trying to save their own skin. To avoid becoming the dead weight this soldier has just become.  

 

“I can’t, Barrow! He’s stuck!”  There’s  _nothing_ romantic about dying.

 

_But I I never felt so much life_

_Than tonight_

_Huddled in the trenches_

_Gazing on the battle field_

_Our rifles blaze away_

_We blaze away_

 

I’ve been here for two years. It’s what you might call ironic, only I’m not laughing. I thought I’d be safe. Medical staff, a nice hospital, maybe a field station, a bed to sleep in at night. But medical personnel is scarce and we’re needed at the front. Women are taking over our jobs in England, and we’re shipped off to war.  

 

This was  _not_ what I had in mind when I enlisted. Though the life-expectancy of a medic is higher than that of a soldier, I’d be willing to bet that our lot is far worse off than they. We don’t have guns to protect ourselves. We can only be set apart from an ordinary soldier by the red crosses on our arms and helmets. It’s supposed to keep us relatively safe. They somehow think the Huns will have the decency not to shoot us. But we’ve actually been fitted with red bright bull’s-eyes to mark exactly where we’d like to be shot. Brains and heart, please, if you will. Thank you very much.  

 

_Corporal Bradley of regiment five_

_And proud array standing by the bathing_

_Soldiers and the stevedores_  

 

They manage to get the body off of me. Something of his had been stuck on something of mine. No pun, no amusement. I haven’t laughed in two years. Oh, there’s a joke here and there, and men do try to lighten the mood, but it’s all fake. No one believes their own laughter.   They ship off the corpse and no one sees me stuffing something in my pocket. I manage to get up off the wet dirt floor before my uniform is soaked, which is lucky. Some of the poor sods here, up against the trench wall, have wet underpants and have had them for two weeks. I just have wet feet. Two weeks of continuous rain and no signs of stopping.  

 

_We laid on the mattress and tumbled to sleep_

_Our eyes align, swaddled in our civies_

_Cradled in our dungarees_

 

This is no place for being human. You shut down your thoughts and you just through the motions; fear for your life and do your work. The rest is forgotten. Life is what happens elsewhere. This is hell. A friend of mine laughed cheekily when I told him I was going to be sent to the trenches. Something along the lines of rugged soldiers huddling close together for warmth. There’s nothing of that here. There are terrified people, there is cold that cannot be shed, dead eyes and bleak faces.  

 

I have made a bit of a name for myself. I’m the one to go to when you’re desperate for cigarettes or sugar. My bag of medical supplies is a little shop with treats to trade next to bandages and such. It’s made me quite popular with the boys.  

 

No one asks where I get these supplies from. Don’t ask, don’t tell, right? But any sane man should be able to understand that charm doesn’t fill a shopping bag. You need goods to trade. And I have goods.  

 

_But You_

_My brother in arms I'd rather I'd lose my limbs_

_Than let you come to harm_

 

Anything goes. A gold tooth, a wedding ring, a necklace, the odd medal. I think they assume I obtain these things from the enemy. Suits me. They want to believe I wriggle the rings off from dead Hun bodies, and pillage their pockets when I find them along the way. I don’t discourage their assumptions but, well. I’m a paramedic; where do you  _think_ I get the gold from? When do I get the chance to rummage through any German’s pocket? Do I tend to dying Germans? No. Well, then. Do the math.  

 

People at home would gasp, I’m sure. Steal from our own? Steal from the heroes at the front?  

 

People here chose not to think on it too much and just cherish the sugar I trade them.  

 

_But You My bombazine doll_

_The bullets may singe your skin_

_And the mortars may fall_

 

And when I’m in short supply of gold and silver, there are other goods popular for trading. Less conventional products, if you like. Products that would make sugar taste a little less sweet. 

I mean, if the men here found out that I occasionally use our morphine supplies to trade for certain commodities, I would likely lose my popularity.  They’re all decent fellows. They wouldn’t wish for a bit of sugar if it means a man had to go through an amputation with no sedatives. Blessed are the ignorant.  

 

Blessed are the willingly ignorant. No one asks.  

 

I don't care what stealing morphine might make me. In a hellish world, a little more hell is not going to make any difference. The pain of an amputation is temporary anyway and they get shipped off to home, so they’ve got something good to look forward to.  

 

_But I I never felt so much life_

_Than tonight_

_Huddled in the trenches_

 

It’s the only thing that reminds me I’m human; cheating the system, lying, stealing, a little trade here, a little pinch there. The rest of my days and nights here I’m in service, carrying the wounded and the dead, surrounded by agony and pain. It’s better to forget you’re a human being in those situations, and just go through it. But it’s good to remember that there’s a will in there somewhere still, a capability to think for oneself. And if it means stealing to do it, well… I’ve never been opposed to stealing.  

 

Rather a thief than a lunatic, anyway. I’ve seen my fair share of people losing it. They go mad, can’t take it. They leap up and meet the enemy with a cheer on their face, laughing all the way until they’re shot. There’s nothing left of their former self, and they couldn’t handle it.  

 

Their families are sent nice letters. These are the heroes that everyone praises.  

 

There are no heroes here. Just dead bodies.  

 

I want to go home.  

 

_Gazing on the battle field_

_Our rifles blaze away_

_We blaze away_

_We blaze away_

_We blaze away_


End file.
